


The Last Garden

by Backbiter222



Category: Original Work
Genre: Attempted Suicide, Bridge - Freeform, Death, F/M, Fire, Flowers, House - Freeform, Marriage, Old Age, Peace, Primroses, Sad, Symbolism, Time - Freeform, Wedding, garden, hyacinths - Freeform, irises, jasmines, kite - Freeform, loss of family, läst, river - Freeform, rocks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 12:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15243147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Backbiter222/pseuds/Backbiter222
Summary: As I walk through my garden, I think of a time long past. A time when I would run through the garden, not walk. But that time has passed. Now I rake my stones and tend to my plants in comfort and peace, knowing my life work will outlive me. The bridge I made, the home I crafted. The stones I raked, the plants I planted. As now I will tell my story to the next person and hope that they will learn from my trials.





	The Last Garden

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story I wrote some time ago and have heavily revised. I hope you all like it. It's one of my favorites so, here you go.

           Long, long ago, I was a young boy of eleven. I lived in a far-off place, filled with beauty and mystery. The garden. My grandfather’s garden. My family was large and plentiful and we all lived in peace, isolated from the rest of the world in our garden. I ran through this garden, carefree and energetic all the days and all the nights. I could barely wait until my little brother was old enough to come with me into the garden. Come with me so we could run free and frolic together in this magnificent garden of wonder. But he was still too young.

 

           I can still vividly picture that fateful day, all these years later, as if it happened yesterday. The sun was bright and beautiful, like glowing liquid gold warming the garden, warming my skin. There was a breeze, perfect for kite flying. The wind felt like the breath of heaven on my face. The birds made such wonderful sounds, calling to me, chirping and singing the best of melodies.

 

           I ran past the purple irises, the blue hyacinths, the white jasmines, and so many other flowers with only one destination in mind. The tall, green grassy hill with the little cave on top. The grass there was as soft as the fur on a kitten's neck. I passed the stream, the water cool and crystal blue, fast-moving and shining like diamonds.

 

           There was no bridge spanning the ever-growing distance across the river bed, so I jumped and splashed in the river, sending the storks resting there flying off. But they will be back. That stream was their life, with all the shimmering fish forging through the current. With all the frogs and birds and plants. The stream was the center for all the life in the garden.

 

           I finally reached the grassy hill and raced toward my cave, the dark shadow a perfect hiding place. The stones were warm from the sun and I climbed up on top, looking for all the world like a small monkey on a mountain. I reached down, into the stones, and pulled out my kite. My grandfather and I worked so long, weaving the fibers of the riverside plants and spinning the string. My grandfather was a master at crafting and building. We crafted that kite from nothing, and I have used it ever since. The kite was a brilliant purple, like a regal king’s coat. There was a twirling tail decorated with bows and a pale blue string leading down to the spool in my hand. This was my kite.

 

           I let go, holding onto the string, and gazed up at the pure, blue sky. It was smooth and only interrupted by fluffy, white clouds. They were so large and so close that I could almost reach up and grab them. I lost myself in that sky. I imagined myself flying free up there, the breeze and winds brushing against my face, the soft cloud fluff clinging to my body as I flew through them. The warm yellow embrace of the sun as I glide ever closer. I lost myself in that sky, imagining that I was the kite and free as a bird.

 

           I fell asleep, dreaming of those clouds. I saw two young boys running hand and hand in the garden. I recognized one of them as me. And the other was my brother. He was finally old enough to play with me. We laughed and ran and jumped and played. I watched as I grabbed my kite and helped my brother fly it. I watched as we swam in the stream. I watched as we raced through the stones. It was a vision of the future and I never wanted it to end. I was so happy and free.

 

           Until I felt myself being shaken.

 

           I opened my eyes to my grandfather, pain and sorrow deeply etched into his once smooth and loving face. His strong, well-worked hands lifted me up. I called out to him, but he didn’t respond. I looked up and saw tears snaking their way down his face, like rain on a window pane.

 

           I turned back and saw my glorious kite drifting off into the sky, lost forever. I called out but received no answer. The kite was gone. My grandfather tenderly carried me down the soft hill, across the river, splashing through, not caring if he got wet, adding his tears to the already flowing water.

 

           I called out to him, What’s wrong? But he only ran faster. All the fragrant flowers blurred together and I felt the wind on my face. But it wasn’t a good wind. This wind felt sad and screamed pain and loss. This wind smelled of smoke and ash.

 

           It was only when we got back to our home that I realized what happened. It’s only then that I saw the black smoke crowding out the clouds and choking the sky. And the screams. I could hear them yelling and calling. The painful noise, like someone dragging their nails across a chalkboard. We rounded the corner, and I saw the flames.

 

           Those orange and yellow and red tongues of fire, dancing, and prancing on the blackened, burning, dying corpses of my family. And the worst part was that the fire was beautiful. The way it moved and danced and crackled. The brilliant colors and the hypnotizing, enticing movement of the fire, burning and etching itself into my mind.

 

           There were no crowds of people surrounding the house, no one to help by pouring water on the flames. The nearest town was more than fifty miles away. And the blaze was too strong for just my grandfather to put out. And finally, I couldn’t take it any longer. The smoke, the flames, the noise crept into my head and it drove me mad.

 

           I could feel myself slipping away. I saw the fuzzy blackness creep in the corners of my vision. And I embraced it and fell into a deep sleep, ridden with unbearable nightmares, nightmares that would stay with me forever.

 

           I embraced the end of pain, the end of feeling the empty darkness eating me up from the inside out.

 

           The pain of never hearing my sister call my name and come running to hug me. The pain of never teaching my brother the secrets of the garden. Of never running with him, free and happy in this magical place. The pain of never seeing my parents again and never telling them I love them. The pain of losing my family forever. The pain of past promises and the pain of fights and memories.

 

           The pain of outlasting them all.

 

           I awoke in the corner of the yard, a bright yellow and orange blanket laying on top of me, a hard pillow beneath my head. I saw the blanket as I would the fire, threw it off and began to scream. The pain, the hurt, the loss came rushing back to me. I jumped up and ran through the blackened, ash covered grass. My house was such a ruin. The once majestic building, placed so it glowed with the setting and rising sun, with the handcrafted wooden planks which fit together like a puzzle, was no more. It was all gone. Almost nothing survived the flames.

 

           I crept into the ruin, determined to find my family, or what was left of them. I crawled into the room and my hands and knees were soon covered in black soot, my once blond hair now stained black. In the main room, I found my family. Their blackened corpses, covered in soot and scorch marks, etched themselves into my mind. The horrified screaming expressions of their last pain-filled moments looked so grotesque. They didn’t belong on a human. Their expressions belonged on some demon from hell. Their skin was burned to a crisp like a leg of meat over a roaring flame. I fell back into the one remaining chair in horror, only for it to collapse under me.

 

           I was overwhelmed with feelings so intense, it was like a tsunami. I ran to what was left of the kitchen and grabbed the largest, sharpest knife I could find. I went back to the main room, and next to the ruined bodies of my family, I kneeled and placed the sharp point of the knife against my chest. My chest was full of all the hurt and horror and with this knife, this blessed tool, I could cut it out and end it. And that was where I was found.

 

           On the ground with the knife. My eyes closed in concentration as I prepared for my meaningless existence to end. For the hurt to stop. So I could see my family again.

 

           The tool of my salvation was wrenched from my hands, and I was taken away. But they couldn’t make me leave the garden. And for the next few years, I never left. I ran through my grandfather’s garden, no longer carefree and energetic, but to chase away the endless pain. For I knew that if I could run fast enough, I could outrun all the pain. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t build up the speed.

 

           I knew that one day, one far-off day, I would stop running. I would grow old here, all alone and there would be no one to stop me from finding that knife. But that day had yet to come. The garden was still my grandfather’s and I could run across the stream, the stream of diamonds and clear beauty, forever tainted by that horrible day.

 

           I could pick the flowers, the purple irises, the blue hyacinths, the white jasmines, and all the others, but it would do nothing. I could frolic in the rain and play with the animals. But my freedom would soon be over, and I eagerly awaited that day when it would all end.

 

           My grandfather was now close to death and I would soon take over his garden, and the knife he kept in his bedroom. The one he didn’t know I knew about. On the day of his death, my grandfather, the only family I had left, called me to him. His skin was paper thin and white as the sheets he was lying on.

 

           I still can recall with perfect clarity his last words. I can hear them, spoken in his still stern voice, echoing in my mind, my dreams, my thoughts. Saying over and over and over again the same thing.

 

           Don’t give in. Don’t give up. Stay strong for those who need it. And keep yourself and The Garden alive my boy. My special, special boy. And find someone to care for.

 

           Don’t give in. Don’t give up. Stay strong for those who need it. And keep yourself and The Garden alive my boy. My special, special boy. And find someone to care for.

 

           Don’t give in. Don’t give up. Stay strong for those who need it. And keep yourself and The Garden alive my boy. My special, special boy. And find someone to care for.

 

           Then, I saw the life pass from him, fading away like an elusive memory slipping out of your grasp. He let go of my arm and fell back against the bed, his eyes sliding shut. It looked like a puppet whose puppeteer lost interest and dropped the strings.

 

           I buried my grandfather in a clear spot in the garden, next to the graves of the rest of my family. I planted his favorite flower over top. Primroses. The name of my mother, his daughter. I prayed that he was in a better place, one filled with happiness and with joy. I prayed that the primroses would grow and bloom like a rainbow stretching up into the sky.

 

           I was suddenly overcome with jealousy and envy in waves like those crashing up on a beach. If my grandfather could be reunited with my family, why couldn’t I? I raced to my grandfather’s bedroom and lifted the floorboard. And there it was. The knife. I raised it to my chest and pressed it into me. A red stain swelled up on my crisp, white shirt, like ink splattering on paper. And I smiled, for this was what I wanted.

 

           As if moving of their own accord, my hands begin to press the knife into my chest, bit by bit, inch by inch. And I welcomed the pain. Then, the knife began to withdraw itself. I opened my eyes and on the other side of the knife was a girl. The most beautiful girl I have ever seen.

 

           Her eyes were a sparkling blue, like twin sapphires. She had smooth, milky skin and her features were beautiful to the point where she seemed more angelic than human. Her gorgeous red hair, like fire dancing and blazing on her head, spilled down to her shoulders. Her red lips were bright and full. There were mud splatters on her clothes, clothes that she wore so well, so spectacularly.

 

           She stopped me that day from ending my meaningless existence. She taught me that I had worth and a purpose. I never found out how or why she was in the garden on that day, but I am so glad she was.

 

           She was kind to me and was brave when I could not be. I loved my Calantha.

 

           We tended the garden together for more than ten years. We planted flowers and trees and bushes. We built a bridge spanning the creek. We built ourselves a new house with a wonderful memorial to my family. We played together in the fields, on the rocks, and in the stream. We spent those ten long years together in peace and happiness. And on the tenth anniversary of our meeting, I proposed. I still remember her face, beautiful as the moon on a clear night. The surprise on her face and the joy in my heart, our hearts when she said yes. That ring looked so perfect on her slim finger.

 

           There was only one witness to the wedding. He was a priest from the next town over. Everything was magnificent on that great day. My Calantha looked like a glowing angelic goddess as she walked down the path of stones I had laid out, over the bridge that now spanned the creek. She grasped a bouquet of primroses in her arms. She walked closer and closer.

 

           How lucky was I to have her.

 

           She reached the step that I was on. We clasped hands, and the priest began to speak. But my Calantha and I only had eyes and ears for each other.

 

           I was floating up off the ground with happiness when she said those two words. I Do. And I then I said them. I then placed my mother’s wedding ring around Calantha’s finger. And I kissed the bride.

 

           My only regret from that day was that my family couldn't be there to watch, to celebrate. We visited their graves after the ceremony and we laid the bouquet down, some flowers on each grave.

 

           Fifty good, long years passed from that day. We tended to the garden and enjoyed each other’s company. We had no children and no one else came to visit. But we were happy. I was content with my life, and she with hers. I almost forgot the pain and the loss of my family from all those years ago.

 

           But my happiness could not last. My Calantha died in her sleep some fifty odd years after our wedding. For her, it was peaceful. For me, it was not.

 

           I walked to the riverbank and stood on the bridge. I held in my hand the knife from all those years ago. After Calantha and I had first met, she made me promise to never try to take my life again. I thought of that promise as I brought my hand back. I then cast the knife out into the stream and watched as it disappeared forever. I should have done that so long ago.

 

           That was the closest I have ever come to breaking the most important promise I have ever made. To not take my life. But I didn’t. I couldn't.

 

           Now I’m old and tired. It has been ten long years since my Calantha passed, sixty years since the day of our wedding, seventy years since we met. As I walk slowly through my garden, I think of a time long past. A time when I would run through the garden, not walk. A time when I was a young and carefree boy, running with his brother. A time that was ended by fire and hurt and pain.

 

           Now I write my story here for some later generation to find. Maybe some boy or some girl in the far off future will benefit from the hard-earned wisdom and knowledge I have discovered and earned.

 

           But that time of boyhood has passed for me. Now I rake my stones and tend to my plants in comfort and peace, knowing my life's work will outlive me.

 

           The bridge we made, placing each bolder and carving each delicate curve. Stabilizing the riverbank so that the animals can continue on.

 

           I think of the home my Calantha and I crafted. The trees I cut and shaped to build the walls. Those walls she put up to form that home. A home that will last for years to come, decorated like the palace of a king.

 

           The stones I raked, making them into the intricate patterns that help to calm my mind.

 

           I think also of the plants we planted, my Calantha and I. The purple irises, the blue hyacinths, the white jasmines, and all the others. And the primroses.

 

           I still visit my family’s graves every day, my Calantha’s grave most of all. Now I will see them all again soon.

 

           I think of the tall trees and willows I planted, we planted. The ones I never dreamed I would see grow.

 

           And finally, I think of the stream I kept clear. The fish that live there and the animals that come to drink.

 

           As I reach my final hours, I think of the life I led in this garden. Of the bridge, the house, the stones, the plants, and the stream. Of my family, my grandfather, my Calantha. I think of the days of my youth when I ran carefree through my garden.

 

           I think of my cave. Of my kite and my life before the end of my childhood. Before the death of my family. And I think of my life afterword. And I smile. For I have had a hard and troubled life, but it was a good life here in this garden.

 

           Everything I have done, everything I have lived for, has been for good. I am content. I am happy. I have done well by my grandfather, by my garden, by my Calantha.

 

           And I embrace the end, knowing my garden, the garden, will continue to survive now that I am gone. That the bridge, the trees, the plants, the house, and the animals will continue on. They will live once I have died.

 

           And perhaps someday, one far-off day, some boy will stumble upon this Eden. And he will live. And I will come back and live on in his memory.

 

           There is a thump against the window behind me. I turn and see with amazement my kite. It is bruised and battered and torn, like me. I watch as it falls to the ground and crumbles into dust. I feel the ache in my chest lessening and I turn back around.

 

           I can see the end now. The spirits of my family make themselves visible. It brings comfort to me knowing there were there all along.

 

           They are circling down, lower and lower. I break out into a grin and open my arms. I am reunited with my love, with my siblings, with my parents, with my grandfather. I clasp hands with my Calantha and let her lead me away.

 

           I am free.

 

 


End file.
